


A Separate Universe

by damnslippyplanet



Series: Where I Go [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Hotel Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, The FBI Probably Does Not Intend For Their Consultants To Behave This Way On The Job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hannibal gets what he wants from Will, seemingly more so with each passing week, until Will sometimes wonders where it will end.  That goes unspoken, heavy in  the air between them.</i>
</p><p>Or: A little S1 AU, developing-relationship, maybe-they-oughta-tell-someone-so-the-FBI-could-save-on-hotel-room-costs style. (Now with a bit of alternate-POV fun in the second chapter.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chronicopheliac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronicopheliac/gifts).



> This inhabits the same collared!Will universe as [Offering](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7130630), but is a glimpse into a much earlier period in their relationship, when they're just starting to figure out what they're doing.
> 
> Happy belated birthday, darling chronicopheliac. Would have liked to get this done for your actual birthday but, as we all know, these two NEVER SHUT UP.

> Hotel rooms constitute a separate moral universe. ~Tom Stoppard

  
_Are you awake?_

Will presses the button to send the text message before he can overthink it and then stares blankly into the dark hotel room while he waits for a response.  A car alarm goes off somewhere outside; the phone remains silent.  Until it doesn’t.

_If I hadn’t been?_

A question for a question.  Of course.  He worries at his lower lip for a moment and then types:  

_You are, though._

Silence again, longer this time, until Will thinks maybe he’s misjudged.  Maybe this thing they’re doing only works in the confines of Hannibal’s office, maybe there’s no room for it anywhere else…

        _Come here._

And Will goes.  

Just like that.

Not _just_ like that - he does stop to put on pants and shoes, and then in a fit of vague anxiety, to grab the empty ice bucket.  He might not be the only one roaming the hotel’s halls even at this hour. If he runs into Jack in the hallways he can claim to…be getting ice at three a.m.?  Sure.  It’s as plausible as anything else Will Graham, The FBI’s Pet Weirdo, ever does.  Jack might not even blink.  He might just assume Will’s drinking himself to sleep, after the horrors of the day’s crime scene.

Will counts the doors between his room and Hannibal’s - of course he’d noticed which one they’d put Hannibal in, and of course Hannibal had assumed he’d noticed - and taps quietly.   _Furtively,_ his mind unhelpfully supplies. _Like a poorly-trained dog scratching to be let in._

The door swings open quickly; at least Hannibal’s not going to leave him standing in the hallway until he feels like letting him in.  They both know he could; that Will would stay.  And isn’t that a kick of something or other - heat, shame, exposure, something nameless that lights up Will’s nerve endings.

Hannibal apparently packs actual pajamas for FBI investigation trips.  His hair looks soft, mussed, unlike itself.  As if maybe he was sleeping after all; as if maybe he woke up for Will.  He looks different like this. Only the fact that Will’s clutching the stupid ice bucket prevents him from reaching out to find out whether Hannibal feels different like this, too.

Hannibal does his own inventory, a slow and remarkably un-subtle drag of his eyes up and down Will’s rumpled and sleepless form, pausing with amusement at the ice bucket. 

"The ice machine is in the other direction,” he offers unhelpfully and with a small twitch of the lips that would be a full-blown smirk on anyone else, as he steps aside and ushers Will into his room.

“I thought… if I ran into someone…”  It was a stupid impulse, a stupid explanation, and it trails off into a shrug. Will finds himself staring hard at a particular spot on the dingy hotel carpet.

“Jack.”  Hannibal’s voice is suddenly close in Will’s ear, and Will barely heard him move.  He startles, slightly.  “Or Ms. Katz.  I believe she’s in the room across the hall.  What will you tell them if they catch you leaving my room later?”

His hand is warm at the small of Will’s back, slipping under his shirt just to rest there.  Will doesn’t particularly mean for his head to bow in response, baring the nape of his neck, it just happens.  He doesn’t have an answer.

The warmth drops away as Hannibal steps back.  Will doesn’t need to look up to know he’s being appraised.  A specimen under a microscope, studied for Hannibal’s curiosity.  For Hannibal’s _pleasure_.

“Tell me what you had in mind when you sent that message.”

Standing still suddenly feels unbearable, pins and needles under Will’s skin. He crosses the room under the guise of putting the stupid ice bucket down, so he can turn and face Hannibal.  To see what he looks like when Will says:

“I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the scene. There’s something there I’m missing. It - I can’t turn my brain off.”

“And you want me to turn it off for you.”

Will nods, mute.

“Your word, please.”

He closes his eyes.

 _"Cauchemar."_  

“It’s not a very good hotel, you know. The walls are quite thin. You’ll need to be quiet for me. Can you manage that?”

“Yes. I think so." 

“Good. If you’re going to stand all the way over there, please move about two feet to your left.”

The light, Will figures out even as he’s already moving. There’s barely a moon, but what little light there is spills through the curtains just there, where Hannibal wants him.  Of course.

If he’s being displayed, he doesn’t need to ask to know what comes next.  There’s not exactly much stripping to do - worn t-shirt, pants and shoes, boxer briefs - but he takes his time, and Hannibal doesn’t speed or slow him.  Just watches Will find his own pace. Watches, probably, Will’s fingers unsteady at the button of his pants, and the bare line of him in what dim moonlight is provided to them.  Watches Will stir back to the half-aroused state he’d been in back in his own room, in the hour he’d spent convincing himself not to do precisely what he’s here doing.

“Lovely.”

It’s aesthetic judgment and praise all at once, and Will flushes warm with it, but the darkness hides a multitude of sins. He holds his chin up and waits for Hannibal to come to him - the gravity between them works that way, pulling on them both.  That much he’s figured out, whatever else is still uncertain.

Hannibal does come, to the small patch of moonlight, to Will.  Runs his fingertips lightly over Will’s shoulder and trailing over his back, barely a touch, just enough to leave Will wanting for more, and says: “Tell me what it is you need me to take away.”

Will wants to ask: _how is it turning my brain off if you’re making me tell you all about it?_ but swallows the thought down instead and speaks.  

Minutes drag by while he tells Hannibal the thoughts he’s been trying hard not to have all night. They’ve both seen the scene, he doesn’t have to describe it, but he does have to describe what’s behind his eyes in the pendulum’s path. The bones he can feel splintering even though he never touched them; the killer’s fierce pleasure fizzing under his own skin. Nothing he ever wanted or asked for; nothing he can turn off.

But Hannibal can turn it off. All the while Will talks he’s _touching._ Delicate sweeps of his fingertips or palms up and down Will’s sides, his stomach and back. Sudden sharp pressure of fingernails that makes Will startle and lose the tail ends of his words. The occasional small interested sound carried by the ghost of Hannibal’s breath over his skin.

Will talks, and Hannibal stands with him and listens and touches, and that’s all for a time. But it’s enough. Will’s almost sure Hannibal hasn’t scraped his nails hard enough to break the skin, but it’s a close thing, and he _feels_ as if his surfaces have been breached. As if there are spaces in his too-tight skin, finally, that the killer’s thoughts can escape through and lift away from him. He feels as if the lines Hannibal’s scratched into his skin have left him bloody and clean, and somehow undisturbed by the idea that it might be possible to be both at once.

Eventually Will runs out of words and thoughts both, and stumbles into a silence that feels easy, as Hannibal’s hands still against his shoulders. His skin is humming and his mind is empty and the bones have stopped crunching behind his eyes.

“Very good. Thank you.” Hannibal’s close behind Will now, his voice a warm puff of air at the back of Will’s neck. It’s inhuman that he can sound calm and courteous at this particular moment, after everything he’s just heard.  

“You’re never horrified,” Will says, almost before he knows he’s speaking aloud.  “What would I have to say to disgust you?”

Hannibal’s hands slide around him and anchor at his hips - rougher than they should be for a man who seems to spend his time composing and cooking - and he gets a small chuckle for his answer. “It would take some work, I suspect. A challenge you can set for yourself some other day, perhaps. For now, we have a decision to make.”

Will doesn’t want to make decisions; that’s the whole point of him standing in this room.  He stands silent and tense as Hannibal goes on.

“I _had_ been forming plans for what I might do with you the first time I got you in a room with a bed.  My bed, ideally. I’d like to see what you think of my bedroom.”

“Is it a stage production like the rest of your house?  More about the people who might see it than about you?”  Rude to ask, probably, but that should hardly surprise Hannibal at this point.  

“I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts on that so I won’t sway you now with advance information.”  He sets his teeth into the side of Will’s neck, scraping somehow delicately, and Will tips his head back against Hannibal’s shoulder to bare more of it.  Hannibal licks the salt from his skin before going on: “I had considered your house as an alternative. There’s some appeal to the notion, if you can be persuaded to send the dogs outside.”

“You’ll be disappointed.  I don’t even know what threadcount my sheets are.”  

He barely knows what he’s saying.  He’s talking just to talk, most of his mind occupied with the slow-building heat of his body in all the places Hannibal’s touched him, or failed to touch him thus far.  

“You must have excellent afternoon light with those windows.  I’d considered that I might take my time with you.  Spread you out and try everything I can think of on you, so that it takes hours and I can watch the light shift over you as the sun moves.”

“You _have_ been thinking about it.”  Will hates the way his own voice sounds, higher and breathy with want.

“As I said.  I had _not_ considered this particular situation.  Squeaky bedsprings, early morning responsibilities, your employer on the other side of a very thin wall. The necessity of sending you back to your room afterwards.”

He doesn’t _sound_ annoyed, but Will suddenly _feels_ annoying.  Burdensome.  Coming here at this hour and asking - shit, basically begging - for Hannibal to deal with him.  Shit.  He tries to step away, suddenly awkward, working up quickly toward being angry at himself.

“I can go back now, if this is too much trouble.  I shouldn’t have…”

“Shh.”  Hannibal catches him effortlessly, before he can get more than a step away.  He silences Will with a searching kiss, all tongues and teeth.  It goes on for long moments until Will relents and relaxes against Hannibal, accepting that he’s meant to be precisely where he is.  He gets some satisfaction from the fact that Hannibal finally sounds affected, slightly breathless, when he goes on: “You’re never _trouble_ , Will.  You are, quite often, a _challenge_ , but that’s something else entirely.  It’s part of your charm.”

“Not a word I hear much.”

“You never make it easy for me. I shouldn’t have anticipated this would be any different.”

Will’s fairly certain he has, in fact, made quite a number of things quite embarrassingly easy.  It’s hard to imagine how much easier he could have been for Hannibal, really.  But he settles for mumbling, “There are other surfaces in here, if you’re so attached to your plans for your fancy bed.”

It’s dark enough, hopefully, to obscure what he fears is another blush - at the very least, another surge of hot embarrassment, at how _needy_ he sounds to his own ears.  How blatantly hungry to have Hannibal take him any damn way he wants, just to get back to where they were a few minutes ago, roaming hands and Hannibal’s hot mouth against his skin and Will on the verge of losing himself in it the way he so badly wants to tonight.

If Hannibal does see the blush, he has the courtesy not to point it out.  Just responds, “There are.  I could have you up against that wall, perhaps.  We could test how very quiet you could be.  Do you think Jack’s bed is right on the other side?  Hotel rooms are often mirror images of their neighbors.”

He could still his voice, perhaps - bury his teeth in Hannibal’s shoulder if all else failed - but Will’s not at all sure he could keep from slapping a fist or a palm against the wall for leverage, pushing himself forward onto Hannibal’s cock or mouth or whatever Hannibal will give him.  It’s a terrible idea; they’ll be heard for certain.

He shudders with the thought and doesn’t say no. _Easy_ , he thinks again. _So fucking easy_.

“Please,” he hears his own voice say, smaller than he’d like.  “If that’s what you want, fine. Just _do something_ , god. I need you to.”

“Hm.”  Hannibal starts walking him backward toward the wall, slow step by slow step, reminding Will of nothing so much as a stalking cat.  “What do you do when you’re like this and I’m not along on the case?  What did you do before me?”

 _Screamed into my pillow a lot,_ Will doesn’t say.  

“I drink my way through the mini-bar if there is one.  I watch a lot of really terrible late night TV.  I write imaginary resignation letters that I never send.”

“You’ll call me next time, instead.”  

It’s a command, not a question. Will’s nod is almost-invisible, and he’s not even entirely sure he means it.  But It’s apparently good enough for now.  Hannibal changes direction in the last few steps before Will’s back is about to hit the wall and tugs at him instead.  Hannibal ends up seated at the very edge of the bedspread, and he pulls Will down onto his lap, straddling and facing him.  

Will feels wobbly, poised at the edge of the bed with barely any purchase; like he might tip backward and over if Hannibal weren’t holding him.  Which, come to think of it, isn’t that different from how he feels most of the time these days anyway.

“Perhaps we’ll use just a little bit of the bed,” Hannibal murmurs _sotto voce_ , one arm tight around Will’s back to hold him steady, the other raking through Will’s hair - neatening it or mussing it, Will’s not sure.  “Just like this, I think.  You’ll hold your voice, but not your pleasure.  You may say “yes” and then nothing else until you’ve come.  Understood?”

It’s the precise opposite of their more customary games, when Hannibal likes to hear Will’s voice and to watch him strive _not_ to come.  This one ought to end much more quickly; the feel of Hannibal’s silk pajamas under his thighs and the cool air against his exposed skin except where Hannibal is warm already have him half undone.

Will nods, and when Hannibal keeps waiting expectant and motionless, mutters, “Yes.”  He clamps his mouth shut against anything else that might want to make its way out.

“Good.  You may steady yourself on me, if you want.”

Will almost does - considers reaching a hand out to steady itself on Hannibal’s shoulders, or maybe both hands looped around his neck.  It would feel good, warm and solid and stabilizing.  Instead he closes his eyes and reaches behind himself to clasp his hands together behind his back, just above where Hannibal’s arm holds him, until the places they touch are all that anchors him to the world.  

That earns him a smile - a real one, not one of the little twitchy ones Hannibal saves for the world outside the two of them.  A smile and a pleased, “You may move if you change your mind,” in a tone of voice that tells him Hannibal hopes he won’t.

It’s fast, after that - Hannibal’s free hand moving from his hair down his chest, pressing hard over the scratches left earlier.  The pressure makes Will twist and squirm, precarious where he’s held in balance. Lighter, perversely, over Will’s nipples where he would have liked more sensation, but Hannibal’s fingers are just there and gone, down and down, until he takes Will’s cock in hand.

For a long moment Will thinks that’s all he’s going to get - Hannibal holding him loosely, almost as if he’s testing the weight and heft of him with no further intention, as casually as he might examine a purchase at the market.  Will’s close to breaking silence to plead for something more, as the moment draws out excruciatingly. Instead,  it occurs to him that he has weapons other than his voice, if he can keep his balance and his mind long enough to use them.

He draws in a breath, flashes something he hopes is a grin at Hannibal, and tilts himself forward just enough to get his mouth on Hannibal’s shoulder.  He wishes fiercely that Hannibal had undressed; that he were tasting skin and not silk as he digs his teeth in.

It’s enough to get a message through, apparently, despite the barrier of Hannibal’s pajamas.  Will registers a motion under him that might be a laugh or a gasp of pain, but is certainly a _reaction_ of some sort, and Hannibal begins to move his hand, not dispassionate  or casual anymore.  He knows by now precisely what Will likes, and this is just that - the speed, the precise tightness of his hold, the press of his thumb just where the right bit of pressure will undo Will entirely.

He’s saying something that may or may not be English - knowing Hannibal, it’s probably not - but even if it were, Will wouldn’t hear it, he’s entirely in his own body now. Not in his mind, not in anyone else’s mind, not at the crime scene - just _here_ , all his nerve endings alight, pinned by Hannibal’s hands and pinning him in turn with his own body and mouth, rocking his hips helplessly now as he’s close, so close, he’s forgotten to care about dignity.

At the last minute he does move, freeing one hand enough to steady himself against Hannibal’s shoulder and move himself upright again, enough to see Hannibal’s face.  He’s still not quite worked up to making eye contact in moments this intense unless explicitly ordered to, but even without that, there are things to see.  There’s the jerk of a muscle in Hannibal’s cheek, the way his mouth has fallen slightly open, the tense line of his jaw, and all of it just from watching Will, _touching_ Will, _god_.  To have that kind of power over this particular man.

It’s enough.  Will tips his head back and closes his eyes and lets himself go, trusting to Hannibal and whatever handful of functioning neurons he has left to keep him from falling backward as he does.  He can’t entirely hold his voice, but he does try, letting out something closer to a whimper or a moan than the full-throated cry that wants to bubble out of his throat.  And then he comes like he’s wanted to since before he picked up the phone back in his room, hard and fast and entirely at Hannibal’s mercy for it, before collapsing forward and entirely ruining Hannibal’s pajamas as he knocks him backward onto the mattress.

Although he has barely a thought in his head above the clean simple sense of release and the safety of being held, he’s _fairly_ certain that he’s not the least bit sorry about the pajamas.

“...Will.”

“Mm?”

He’s vaguely aware that he’s maybe drifted a little, heavy atop Hannibal, burying his face in the other man’s neck.  Possibly embarrassingly clingy; likely putting Hannibal’s limbs to sleep with the awkward position they’re in. Possibly he doesn’t want to know just how long Hannibal’s let him rest like that.

“I think we’d both be sorry eventually if we fell asleep like this.”

Words.  Will knows how to use those, he vaguely recalls.  He detaches himself just enough that his words won’t be muffled against Hannibal’s skin to say, “I’m pretty comfortable.”

“You won’t be comfortable in the morning if I let you fall asleep and one of your colleagues sees you leaving my room.”

“I don’t care.”  He really, really doesn’t.  He’d send a group text to the entire team right now telling them exactly what just happened, if it would get Hannibal to let him fall asleep just like this, and if his phone weren’t back in his own hotel room.

“You’ll care tomorrow, and I’m afraid it’s my job to care about that on your behalf until then. I’d say that you’d thank me for it later, but you won’t.”  

Hannibal sounds amused again, as he rolls Will over and onto his back and sits up next to him, rumpled and messy and unfairly fucking gorgeous.   Will blinks up at the ceiling, and then over at Hannibal, as he forces himself back into something resembling thought and speech.

The first thought that arrives whole and coherent is that he needs to get his hands on Hannibal, or his mouth.  He needs to repay Hannibal for how thoroughly he’s removed...whatever it was Will cared about before, he can hardly remember right now.  And even if it weren’t repayment, he just _wants_ him, disheveled and flushed like this, like Will suspects very few people have seen him.

He thinks he manages to say something to that effect, followed by, “...you know, in a minute.  When I can sit up.”

But Hannibal’s already up and off the bed, gathering Will’s discarded clothes and dropping them on the bed before stripping off his own ruined pajama top.  He shushes Will’s noise of protest.

“You can stay and catch your breath while I change, and then you’ll shower and get dressed and go back to your room.”

“But--”

“I’d shower with you if these stalls were a reasonable size, but I don’t think we can manage it.  So I’ll go ahead of you, if you’ll lend me your key.  I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep, and if you still wish to reciprocate before you do, I would like nothing better.  I’ll come back here once you’re properly asleep.”

It seems unnecessarily complicated.  Like most things involving Hannibal.  Will’s feeling enough like himself again to manage a tiny eye-roll before stating as much.  “I don’t need you to come back with me.  It’s not like we did anything requiring actual aftercare, here.”

“Indulge me, please.”  Hannibal comes back over to the bed, close enough to lean down and kiss Will again, softer and quieter than the earlier heated, sloppy kisses. He straightens up again but stays close by.  “I wouldn’t let you go back to your own room at all if the choice were mine. Consider this the compromise.”

Will finds the muscle coordination to sit up again finally, mostly so he can reach up for another kiss - a whole slow series of them, one melting into the next until Hannibal’s soft and yielding like he only gets in these moments.  

“Your compromises are terrible,” he says when he stops for breath.  “But okay.  If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want.”

And Hannibal gets what he wants from Will, seemingly more so with each passing week, until Will sometimes wonders where it will end.  That goes unspoken, heavy in  the air between them.

Will reaches for his pants and takes his room key from his wallet, handing it over to Hannibal.  “Okay.  I’ll shower and meet you back at my place in ten minutes.  I _am_ going to do my very best to get my revenge for that quiet nonsense, so you might as well be naked when I get there. And _you_ can practice being quiet for a while.”

Hannibal’s smile, his real smile, is something Will’s starting to think he might never get enough of.

Will leaves the bathroom door open while the shower heats up, just in case Hannibal changes his mind about trying to squeeze into the stall with him.  But as he’s stepping in, he hears the room door open and shut with a solid click, Hannibal leaving to go wait for Will in the shitty room down the hall.

Ridiculous, complicated man.  

Will turns the shower spray up hotter and reaches for the soap, scrubbing at his skin fast and hard.  If he hurries, he might be able to make it back to his own room in less than ten minutes.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr [asked for a glimpse of this 'verse from someone else's perspective](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com/post/148374518451/pov-puleeze-for-collard-will-fic-love-you) and I can deny my Tumblr friends nothing. And so: The preceding chapter's events from Bev Katz's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not be canon for this ‘verse. I haven’t really decide how early “A Separate Universe” takes place, and thus whether I really want Bev putting two and two together at this point in time. But for the prompt and for the fun of it, let’s run with a _what if_ about what might happen a couple of hours after the first chapter...

Bev comes back from her morning run dripping with sweat and feeling both excellent, and somewhat gross. She gives the hotel’s front desk a wide berth but smiles a greeting at the late-night/early-morning desk staff, and heads up to her room to shower before heading down to breakfast.

Or that’s the plan, anyway. That’s how mornings on the road for a case usually go.

They _don’t_ usually go like this:

Bev rounds the corner from the elevator to find Hannibal Lecter letting himself into his room. And sure, he could be coming back from a run (but not in his dress shoes), or from a trip to the vending machines (but not with empty hands), or probably something else entirely. Except for two things: the utter disaster of his hair, and the fact that he winks at her before he vanishes into his room.

She stares after him as the door closes. It’s clearly a walk of shame, except that she’s rarely seen anyone look any less ashamed about anything in her life.

Huh.

Over breakfast with Jimmy (the rest of the team absent as usual - Zeller sleeps in, Jack orders room service, Lecter cooks for himself in even the worst hotel, and Will probably hasn’t eaten an actual breakfast in years), she regales him with the tale of Hannibal Lecter’s Sex Hair. They get a good laugh out of it and agree that while they wouldn’t have picked him for the type, it’s not really _surprising_ that he could pick up some rando at the hotel bar for a one night stand. It’s not even really surprising that he went back to her room instead of the reverse; hard to picture Lecter letting anyone mess up his sheets or use his toothpaste. Then again, it would have been hard to picture him letting anyone mess up his hair, but Bev’s seen it first-hand and may never recover.

When the gossip runs low - even Jimmy Price can only wring so much shock value out of a discussion of sex hair - they raise a glass of orange juice to Lecter’s mystery conquest and get on with discussing the day ahead of them.

None of which stops Bev from noticing, once the group assembles in the lobby to get on with their day’s work, that Will’s in a surprisingly good mood for the day they all had yesterday. And that while Jack’s divvying up assignments, Lecter produces a muffin from god knows where and silently hands it over to Will, and Will rolls his eyes but actually takes the damn thing and eats a solid half of it.

Which doesn’t mean anything. Bev’s a damn good investigator and she knows that a couple of data points do not make a pattern. So it’s not until later in the day when Will leans over to look at some paperwork she’s trying to show him that she catches a quick glimpse of a bruise or blotch of some sort on his collarbone. Which hides itself away again as soon as he straightens up, and anyway it could have been an odd shadow.

Could have been. But isn’t.

It’s not quite a _gotcha_ , but it’s a third data point, and it’s enough for a pattern.

She makes a mental note to debrief price later, and returns to work with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You too can make me dance like a puppet for your amusement - er, I mean, fill prompts and dispense headcanons for you - over on [Tumblr](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com/)!


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